Some of the greatest moments in comedy aren’t written. They happen in the uncomfortable space where something goes wrong — or appears to go wrong — and instinct takes over.

During one rehearsal, Tim Conway casually announced that he had forgotten all his lines. No drama. No apology. Just a simple statement delivered with that familiar calm that usually meant trouble was coming.

Across from him stood Harvey Korman, a master of precision, timing, and carefully built reactions. Harvey panicked.
“What are you going to do on stage?” he asked, already imagining disaster.

Tim thought for a moment, then answered honestly:
“You just perform like normal. I’ll… walk across.”

See also  “Sir, I’m the one asking the questions here!” Tim Conway barks, pounding the desk — but within seconds, the “interrogator” can’t even interrogate himself. What starts as a serious spy parody quickly unravels into chaos as Conway’s deadpan detective loses control of his own routine — while Harvey Korman tries, and fails spectacularly, to stay in character. Every twitch, every pause, every barely stifled laugh turns the sketch into a masterclass in comic tension. When Conway pulls out the “truth serum” and starts slurring nonsense, Korman breaks so hard the camera nearly shakes. It’s not just a sketch — it’s a moment where discipline collapses, genius takes over, and two comedy legends remind us that laughter isn’t scripted… it’s contagious.

It sounded ridiculous. And vague. And dangerous.

That night, the sketch began as planned. Harvey launched into the scene, committed and serious, delivering every line with professional focus. Then, without warning, Tim Conway calmly walked across the stage. He didn’t speak. He didn’t gesture. He didn’t acknowledge anyone. He simply passed through the scene like a man who had wandered into the wrong room.

The audience laughed.

A few minutes later, Tim did it again. Same walk. Same silence. Bigger laughter.

By the third time, the crowd was roaring. Harvey tried to hold it together — shoulders shaking, eyes watering, every ounce of discipline being tested. Eventually, he lost the battle. He laughed so hard that he forgot his own lines, collapsing into the very chaos he had feared.

See also  “Are you sure it’s still ticking?” — the question barely leaves Harvey Korman’s lips before The Oldest Man (Tim Conway) shuffles into the room, moving at a speed that could make a sundial impatient. In “Clock Repair,” one of The Carol Burnett Show’s most iconic sketches, Conway turns time itself into a joke — and Korman’s battle to keep a straight face into pure comedy legend. Every movement creaks like the antique clock he’s supposed to fix, every pause stretches longer than logic allows, until the audience is in hysterics and even Korman can’t hold it together. What begins as a simple repair job unravels into total chaos: gears fall, tools drop, and Conway’s deadpan expression never wavers. It’s physical comedy at its most masterful — a reminder that in Conway’s world, time doesn’t just fly… it limps, coughs, and wheezes its way into history.

And that was the brilliance of Tim Conway.

He understood something rare: that comedy doesn’t always come from doing more. Sometimes it comes from doing less. From patience. From silence. From allowing the other performer — and the audience — to fill in the absurdity themselves.

Harvey Korman once admitted that Tim was the most dangerous partner he ever worked with. Not because Tim tried to steal scenes, but because he dismantled them quietly, one innocent step at a time.

In that moment, “forgetting the script” wasn’t a mistake.
It was the joke.